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Jan 30, 2013

It was Sunday and an idea of captivating the break to visit south
Kashmir in the local passenger train poured into my mind. So I rolled up my
sleeves, took my peers along and moved on.

It was a fine morning although cold but sunny enough to make it
pleasant. Although I have traveled by train outside Kashmir many times but it
was my maiden train trip in Kashmir. Perhaps the only reason for my excitement was
to travel in an environment that is colored in snowy white unlike outside Kashmir
and draw the comparisons.

While I was standing along with my peers at the Srinagar Railway station,
my mind was imagining the past experiences and doodling the two scenarios that
looked quite complementary.

The Srinagar Railway platform looked quite appealing and clean as
compared to the shabby ones outside the valley that are usually filled with half-naked
“sadhu babas”, beggars and the waste. The announcement about the train’s
arrival was made and in a while I could squinty see a short truncated train approaching
closer. It was a surprise to see a small four-coach train that adjusts people
manifolds its seating capacity.

Well, the train started moving after a while with its whistle
blowing louder as if saying good-bye to the few people standing by and wakening
up others. The train that I assumed to be unoccupied was flooded with people as
passengers started getting multiplied. Although
the train was filled to its fullest, the breathtaking landscape and snowy village
fields outside were good enough to entertain me. Otherwise I had to plug-in my
earphones in order to kill my time and facilitate a good slumber in presence of
strange annoying sounds of chuckling, barking, bragging, backbiting, gabbing
and fighting.

As I looked through the window, a giant striking outline of the sun
in the east amidst the snowy white fields was giving the gloomy wintry flora a
solid color complexion. Enchanting
villages with young lads playing hide and seek behind the outsized heap of
pasturage was presenting the scenario of some old black and white Hindi movie
being played on my train window as the screen.

The pleasant panorama outside the train window reminded me of the ugly
scenes when I used to travel in Indian Railways. I vividly remember how I was
always taken aback after looking through the window to rejoice some scenery
outside. It was either some filthy fouling crap or poor people looking for a
space to excrete away their last night meals. Zounds!

Moving on, as our train reached Pampore, the aroma from the saffron
felids filled the air with a heavenly fragrance. Again, I recomposed my
previous fouling experiences outside Kashmir. My Goodness, what a terrible smell
used to fill the air at some junctions. It smelled worse than the worst thing I
had ever smelled. Even more disgusting part was the scene presented by the
graffiti on the walls outside and the hoardings advertising the “aphrodisiac
curatives” with weird names like Dr.Bengali,
Japani Teel... Yuk!!

The last comparison was something that underlined my whole trip as
out of ordinary. It was like transcending from one age to another...BANG!! Both
the environments were totally opposite; the passengers, their opinions, their
dressings and their behavior, it was all poles apart.On one side the crowd in the Kashmir train
consisted mainly of the riffraff Kashmiri faces; Women veiled in purdah
and young village teenyboppers imitating their favorite Bollywood icons with
their spiky hair flooded in hair-gel…Ha-ha. On the other hand the Indian Railway
crowd was more diverse starting from the “bihari” guys, “Sophisticated” elites,
the ladies who lunch, dudes carrying hi-fi gadget, potbellied uncle-jees,
Sari wore women and young lads carrying the newbie love novels, the “Chetan
Bhagat stuff”.

The Kashmir train was airing familiar sounds of diverse Kashmiri lingos;
the south accent, the north and the city. The Indian Trains, however, puffed my ears
with Punjabi, Hindi, Haryanvi, Bihari and what not. Almost all tangled with some
abusive adjectives. There were also the sounds of people trying to anglicize
their English speaking accent to sound more pompous...Huh! I felt uneasy; both
the times.

On the whole it was a journey full of drama, excitement, action and
fun. And later when I reached back home, I rested myself in my room, staring at
the ceiling while looking amazed and recollecting my experiences in order to
find answers to my bewilderments that are still puzzled!!

Jan 26, 2013

Today it’s the Republic day of
India, a great zealous day for the “Largest democracy in the world”. But for Kashmir, it’s
not just another holiday; it is the day of intuitive tensions, annoying frisking
and no work.

Well I, like my other peers, have
grown up in the turmoil-ridden streets of Srinagar where most of childhood was shackled
in concertina wires and trampled under Jackboots. I have smelled the smoke of shells and my ears are familiar with the deafening roar of guns. My poor vocabulary is well versed with terms like curfew and crackdown. Each chaotic day that I
have survived has now turned more into a routine and hence habitual. But this day, the 26th of January has always
been special, out of the ordinary 364 days of the year.

As I vividly remember, as a child #26Jan was more like a
D-day for me and my peers. I was a kid and any opportunity to rejoice was
always welcoming for me. I
was never curious to celebrate the day as a proud Indian but I was more curious to watch
the special republic day parade on TV. Although I am not a keen viewer of that
pomp and show anymore but I clearly remember how the TV program presented the
long-winded cavalcade of Indian pride bragging about their huge imported ammo
and the rich cultural diversity(that I really appreciate). The
Arjun Tank, Bheem and other Hindi stuff sounded huge to my little mind.Huh!

Like my Kashmiri brethren, I too was
confined to my home only to watch that special TV program followed by a reel of
patriotic Bollywood movies that programmed my tender brain and fed it with an
engineered affection towards the Indian Nation and definitely hate towards neighboring Pakistan.

Following the cavalcade of the different Indian States, I always glued myself
to the TV set, desperate enough to get a glimpse of my home, Kashmir. I am not
really sure if the actors dressed in pheran and dancing on the Kashmiri tunes were
Kashmiris in real. But the way they imitated the various Kashmiri activities seemed
amusing. It was always about the pashmina shawls, dancing damsels and houseboats. But Kashmir
is lot more promising I believe.

Period! Time has
changed and hence “their” policies. I am a grown up now and so have “their” ways
of confining me and other Kashmiris to their homes. Now they welcome our 26th Jan morning by blocking our mobile phone and internet signals in the name of "National security". I
reason they fear the tweets that bombard their image and devastate their reputation.
They fear the black banners that flood the social networking sites eating up
their pride. Although the new policies have been engineered wisely but some old
ones still persist. The Republic day parade and “Desh-Bhakti” movies still
flood the Indian TV world the whole day only to add to the boredom of a common
Kashmiri, myself included.

Now if I wish to move out
and rejoice the holiday with my peers, I am asked for my Identity and frisked
to such a level that surpasses the highest level of annoyance.The frisking and other “security” measures
are beefed-up a week ago heralding the coming of an unwelcoming day in Kashmir.
As such the streets look null and void except a pack of streets dogs and Indian
Soldiers patrolling the deserted nowhere.

The same episode follows on and
on and iterates every year on 26th of January. At the end of the day
when the celebrations in India are over and people start moving back happily to
their homes, Kashmir is let free to speak, mourn, shout, cry and tweet. And now
when I am sharing all this I feel as if a curfew relaxation has been declared in
Kashmir only to make my mobile phone breathe again and my brethren take a sigh
of relief until the next R’ day arrives. Till then I am suggested to keep
bombarding my tweets!!

Machine guns showered the deafening rain
Silencing all the voices that reverberate

A young man came like a Godsend brave

Jumped over the gun that roared the most

Digesting all the bullets, the unsung hero

Saved his brethren from the killing ammo

Bang! All ran for survival and 52 dead

Trucks loaded martyrs, Jhelum engulfing the rest

The aftermath was ugly as it changed the maps

People were dead but the rebellion born

Behold! This is no cock and bull story

It is an episode that needs an ear

Lo! Time changes and so do we

As nothing in the sphere is stationary

People come and go and least remembered

Inscribing and exploiting, to earn a name

I dream and write but to no avail

A lame duck in the land of stool pigeons, that’s what I
am

Illustration Of Gow Kadal Massacre by Abdul Basit.

Epilogue:

Sometime back I visited a friend in Gow Kadal, one of the archaic parts of old Srinagar. The place is more famous for another reason, the bloody episode called as #GawKadalMassacrethat took place on 21st Jan, 1990.

As I walked through the intricate busy streets of Basant bagh, across Gow Kadal Bridge towards Habba Kadal, an old rusty board hung at one of the wooden poles in memory of GawKadal Martyrs attracted my attention. It read some urdu text that was hardly legible because of the rust and deformation. And once I inquired from my friend who lives nearby, I was acquainted that the board was a placeholder to the memories of GowKadal Massacre. The text was old as were the memories of the gruesome day.

The small board although barely visible left an indelible mark on my heart, growing my curiosity. I explored about the massacre that consumed more than 50 innocent lives.

I munched down over a dozen important pieces previously written on the same subject. Believe me it is not an easy task to read something again and again that makes you feel not only sad but discomforts your soul to screech out the deafening wail. Reading the disheartening compilations about the massacre, I couldn’t stop myself to pen-down my sadness or should I say my anger, that was boiling to vent out since I started to read the first piece. It seemed as if an ugly gulp of bloody imaginations was stuck at my throat, hard to swallow and even more hard to digest. I couldn’t, so I vomited out my feelings on paper.

#GawKadalMassacre is
believed to be the first massacre following the rebellious uprisings in Indian
Administered Kashmir that consumed more than 50 innocent lives.

I cannot narrate in anyway the real pain of my brethren about how they were
massacred on the fateful day. My poor perspective can never have that
mountainous courage to carry the
sufferings of #GowKaddalMassacre and what followed. I could only lament over
my past and my present helplessness. In the least terms, I could only weave the
gloomy imaginations into the form of this poem.

#GowKaddalMassacre is one of the ugly massacres that happened in Indian Occupied Kashmir, where more than 52 innocent unarmed civilians have been reportedly murdered openly by the Indian forces (CRPF). To Know More About The #GowKaddalMassacre You Can Follow The Links Below: